Finding Nouf

by Zoë Ferraris

  Eric sputtered in disbelief, but Nayir ignored it. "That was trouble for you, wasn't it? Even in America. Suddenly she wasn't safe anymore, and you had to get rid of her."

  "I did no such thing." Eric stood up. "I think we're finished here."

  "If you value your roommate's funding," Nayir growled, "you'll sit down."

  Reluctantly Eric slid back into his chair. He crossed his arms and waited.

  "Nouf was probably kidnapped and taken to the desert. I'd hazard a guess that one of your drill sites isn't too far from the place where they found her, which makes you the perfect suspect."

  Eric didn't reply.

  "You can either tell me the truth now and trust me to be discreet, or I'll bring this whole matter to the family," Nayir said. "I'm sure they'll want to know all about it, even if it does ruin their relationship with your ... roommate?"

  "All right." Eric exhaled with a noticeable tremor. "I was helping her. She had no one—I was her only link to freedom. But I had absolutely nothing to do with her death. Why would I kill her? She was about to pay me close to half a million riyals." He frowned at his guest. "Now I have nothing."

  "So you went to all this trouble to help her and she gave you nothing? Not even a deposit?"

  "No—yes, yes, she gave me a little money for the apartment and the university registration. But it wasn't that much."

  "A million riyals," Nayir said. "That doesn't seem like a lot to you?" Muhammad had said it was a million riyals. Nayir was willing to concede that the figure might have been overstated, but Eric looked abashed.

  "She did pay you," Nayir said. "Not half a million. A million. That's a nice bit of money, but all the same, it does put you in a jam. Tell me, did she change her mind and ask for the money back?"

  Eric scoffed.

  "Of course you wouldn't have had to give it back," Nayir went on, "since you probably didn't have a written contract, and nobody but her escort knew about the plan. But she could have threatened to tell her brothers about you. She could have made up a story about you stealing her money. It would be her word against yours, and who would they believe—her or you?"

  An unpleasant emphasis on the word "you" had the effect of unnerving Eric even more. He made an effort to look proud, but when he spoke, his voice shook.

  "I'm sor—I'm sorry, but that never happened. It's true she could have revealed the plan, but that's not what she wanted."

  Nayir studied his eyes for signs of deceit. He seemed afraid of being caught, but whether because of his greedy financial dealings or because of murder it was hard to say.

  "How much did she pay you?" Nayir asked.

  "Half a million."

  "How?"

  "In cash. But mostly gold. Like most women in this country, that was how she preferred to keep her personal assets. Tied up in chains, if you will."

  "How does a young girl get that kind of money?"

  "Oh, come on, her family's rich. Someone—I don't know who—gave her a large sum for the wedding, and the rest was probably hers."

  Nayir wondered who had given her the money and if that person had discovered that it had not been spent on the wedding.

  "When was the last time you saw her?" he asked.

  "Two days before she disappeared. And I swear I didn't touch her. I didn't even know she was pregnant."

  "What happened at your last meeting?"

  "Nothing." Eric's voice was firm. "We went over the details again. I gave her the key."

  "So you were still going ahead with the plan?"

  "Yes, we were. Everything was fine."

  Nayir fought a sharp dislike for the man, but it wasn't the same as knowing he was guilty. He wiped his hands on a napkin. "Where were you on the day she disappeared?"

  "I was here, in Jeddah."

  "Were you at work?"

  "Most likely."

  "Can anyone verify that?"

  "Yes."

  "Then I'm going to need your office number and all of your drill site information. But first, if you're as innocent as you claim to be, I'm sure you won't mind giving me a DNA sample." He couldn't immediately determine the effect of his request. Eric sat fixed in his chair, staring curiously at him.

  "Of course you can have my DNA," he said finally.

  Nayir managed to keep a casual pose, but his discomfort deepened. He tried to understand why he disliked Eric so much. There was a cockiness in his manner, and a snobbishness too. Eric was in some ways the evil American, the greedy man who comes to Saudi and does anything for money, wreaking havoc with society—in this case, with innocent virgins—and yet seems to have no idea that he's ruined lives. Nayir sensed that even if Eric had killed Nouf with his own two hands, he might fear getting caught, but he wouldn't regret his actions.

  Eric gave an uncomfortable smile. "How do you want it, then?"

  "A hair," Nayir grumbled, fishing in his pocket for a baggie. Eric pulled out a few strands of hair.

  "And the stork?" Nayir asked, plucking the object from the table and holding it up.

  "I gave it to her," Eric said. "It was our contract."

  "A stork?"

  "A promise for a fertile future." Eric waved a tired hand in the air, as if he knew there were no fertile futures. "As you said, we couldn't sign a real contract—there was a danger it would slip into the wrong hands."

  "Of course," Nayir replied. Eric's blasé wave of the hand disturbed him; it suggested that Nouf was a fool for believing that her dreams would ever come true.

  "How did you meet her?" Nayir asked. "I don't believe her family would have introduced you to their daughter."

  "No, they didn't." Eric seemed to take no offense from Nayir's words. "It was by accident, in fact. My roommate and I were visiting the Shrawis one afternoon. We went for a walk on the beach, and who should ride up on a bright yellow jet-ski but this beautiful young girl. She was modest, of course, and when she saw us she threw a scarf on her hair and wrapped it around her face. Ken—that's my roommate—said something polite. She seemed nervous speaking to us, but she asked if we were American, and we said yes. Then abruptly she left. We figured she thought we were dirty infidels, but as we were leaving the house, a young servant came after us asking for our phone number. Turned out he was her escort and she'd sent him to catch us when her brothers weren't looking."

  "And you gave him your number."

  "Why not? We had no idea what she was after, but..." Eric weighed his next words carefully. "I was confident it wasn't of a—how shall I say it? An immoral nature."

  Nayir had the impression that Eric's first thought was that Nouf's intentions were indeed immoral. Perversely, he imagined that Eric had been disappointed to discover that she wanted something more businesslike from him. Nayir realized that he was being harsh.

  "One more thing," he said. "When you went to the Shrawi household, did you ever go beyond the sitting rooms? Into the men's bedrooms, perhaps?"

  "No," Eric sputtered. That this time he had taken offense was visible in a hardening of his face. A scarlet blush blossomed on his neck. It confused Nayir until he realized that the question had suggested sex.

  "What I mean is..." He had meant to ask about Othman's missing jacket, but feeling flustered, he decided to drop it. Awkwardly he stood up. "Never mind."

  Eric seemed relieved that he was going. Nayir thanked him and left.

  The outside air was as cool as desert night. He inhaled and slipped into his coat, which still smelled like the house. He had thanked Eric for the meal but gave an even greater thanks to Allah for the freedom of a street, for the right to walk away.

  It was still early evening when he reached Muhammad's house. The escort was home, and he willingly gave up a sample of his hair. Nayir bagged it and went straight to the examiner's office. He didn't bother trying to find Miss Hijazi; he simply left the samples in a paper bag at the desk. The security guard promised to give them to her. When he asked if Nayir wanted to leave a message, he said no.

  He was doin
g what he always did when he needed to stop thinking. He was driving. In circles. There was precious little in the way of alternatives. Saudi had no bars, no nightclubs, no discos or cinemas. There were underground hangouts, of course, in the homes of the elite and certain members of the royal family, where a man could buy a glass of wine or a shot of whiskey. There were even brothels, private residences where men could find prostitutes—all non-Muslim women, since it was haraam to sleep with a Muslim whore. But Nayir had no interest in brothels and bars other than for their shock value, when he thought of what must go on in such places. However, there was plenty of one thing: with gas at fifty-two cents a gallon, he could drive all he liked. So he did, along with a million other bored men. The traffic was so bad that he was forced to drive in ever widening circles.

  The city had no major intersections, only roundabouts. They branched off in ten, twenty directions. Open-air sculptures sat in the center of each, conveniently distracting any driver with their enormous, sometimes embarrassing forms. Colossal Bedouin coffeepots. Flying cars wedged in a block of concrete. Body parts—a fist, a giant foot. But most of Jeddah's four hundred sculptures ranged from the abstract to the idiotically substantial without showing the human form.

  Like many residents, Nayir spent much of his driving time seeking out roundabouts and giving their sculptures pejorative names. It was a habit he'd picked up from Azim—Azim, who had gone to Palestine for an aunt's funeral seven weeks ago and hadn't been heard from since. Nayir entered the first roundabout off Medina Road, with the Enormous Bicycle propped in its center, its handlebars three times taller than a man. (He called it "Made in China.") He circled twice and cut east, zipping through the roundabout that held the first-ever Saudia jet ("God Bless America for Infidel Technology"), until he reached the clogged lanes around Mathematical Tools—compass dividers and a T-square straddled by a protractor the size of an upended Boeing. He circled languidly, studying the sculpture from every side, but he couldn't come up with a clever name. "Arab Inventions"? "What We Used to Do Back When We Used to Do Something Important"? What did they do, anyway? He'd forgotten.

  His energy was gone, but he found it impossible to leave the roundabout. There were too many cars cruising around him. With a freak stab of panic, he imagined going round and round forever. Desperately he nosed right, and after some honking, he broke free and away.

  Gripped by a sudden urge to flee the city, he focused all of his attention on reaching the Corniche. There he would have eighty kilometers of freedom. He'd take a ride down the coast, get away from the city and look at the stars. Maybe he'd sleep on the beach. Sometimes he thought of moving away from the city, living in a small cottage that was closer to the desert, but the city was where his connections were, where he found new clients and kept in touch with the old ones. He couldn't leave his uncle, especially now that Samir was getting old. Besides, living on the boat was almost like living in the wilderness, if he went sailing frequently enough.

  He decided he'd pull off the road and find a quiet spot. Just the thought of being close to the desert all by himself settled his thoughts, and with a burst of strength he switched on the radio. He tuned to Radio Jeddah and listened to an imam bleating about proper conduct with women. Usually he didn't like this sort of angry noise, but tonight it was strangely comforting.

  "Touching," the imam growled. "It is the fornication of the hand. You are not to look upon na-mehram women—do not look upon any woman who is not family to you, for that is the fornication of the eye."

  He thought about Miss Hijazi, and he remembered their walk through the American compound. In one awkward moment, when he'd felt a terrible flutter in his stomach, there'd been something in her eyes—was it admiration? What reason would she have to admire him? He imagined Othman talking about him, painting a picture of ... what? A righteous Muslim? A man who prayed five times a day, made a yearly hajj, paid his charitable zakat, and conducted himself modestly in everything? He doubted that it would impress a woman like her. Maybe he was a heroic desert guide. A man who could shoot a jackal.

  He passed the Blackpool Lights, Victorian-era streetlamps imported from England and utterly jarring amid the palm trees and dunes. His attention turned to the buildings, to the honeycomb mosques that flew past his windows and the Patriot missiles scattered between them, as menacing as wasps. Suddenly the scenery became plain again—long, empty fields broken by ugly housing complexes that looked abandoned in the dusk—and his thoughts shifted to Eric. What appeal did a man like that have for a woman like Juliet? He was too old for her, too arrogant. Had they slept together? Nayir was jolted by a sudden memory of Nouf, but he shook his head to dispel the image.

  Why would Eric help a girl like Nouf? For sexual favors? Because of his beliefs? Nayir suspected that his real motive was greed. Eric seemed to be doing all right, living in a house like that. Yet Nayir could imagine his insecurity—it was the roommate's house; Eric was in some sense a guest. He still kept an apartment in the American compound. Perhaps his deal with Nouf was a way to insure himself if his roommate ever decided to kick him out.

  "And even the voice!" The radio broke into his thoughts. "Its subtle contours can commit the fornication of the lips, the teeth, the very breath we use to praise Allah!" Nayir wondered what Nouf's voice had been like. Did she, like some women, put coins in her mouth to muffle the sweetness of her sound? Had she spoken through a burqa, or was she modern enough to show Eric her face? Eric was American, and Americans had a habit of annihilating the rules; when you talked to one, it was sometimes okay to act as they acted. Nayir had seen it himself with Juliet, the way he looked right at her face. Nouf, who was rebellious enough to abandon her fiancé, probably did show Eric her face. She probably shook his hand and looked directly into his eyes, trying to prove that she could be American too.

  The imam's voice, grizzled and mean, was a hazard to his driving, so he switched it off and rolled down the window, letting the air fill his ears. He tried to remember Miss Hijazi's voice. For a woman so brazen, she spoke with surprising softness. He'd suspected that she was trying to take the edge off her words, to appear modest when really she was not. Her voice hadn't been particularly lyrical or sweet, and he decided that there was no shame in having heard it.

  A larger thought was lurking, pushing its way into the light. Eric probably knew nothing about Othman's jacket, and even if he did, why would he steal it? It was a ridiculous idea; he undoubtedly had his own GPS and maps. Nayir felt foolish for even having asked. He saw now that he'd been hoping to avoid the fact that someone from the estate had kidnapped Nouf. He'd entertained the thought from the start. Samir had said it; all of the new evidence pointed toward it; and still he was ignoring it.

  What would happen next? Miss Hijazi would process the DNA samples, but would she call him? Or would she do the right thing and talk to Othman first? If that happened, and if the samples revealed the identity of the baby's father, then he probably wouldn't see Miss Hijazi again. It would be a relief not to have to worry about his conduct anymore, but in truth, he didn't feel relieved.

  Turning back to the world, he found he was circling a sculpture he'd never paid much attention to before. It was a crude abstraction, a high steel pole notched like a spine. It was broken in half, and the top section hung over the street, clearly by artistic intent. Two words came to mind before he could stop them: Viagra, please. And with a frenzied jerk he cut through the traffic and tore into a darkened alley, where he came to a screeching halt.

  He'd reached a dead end.

  18

  IT WAS THE WORST KIND of noon, overbright and muggy and seared by a sun that had expanded to fill every bit of the sky. A steamy, breathless, penetrating air poured like liquid lava onto every surface, causing ripples of heat, sharp glints of light, and such mirages as might have misled an entire army into the very hottest part of hell. Katya waited for Ahmad in her usual spot behind the coroner's building, but in the five minutes she stood there the soles of her new sandals me
lted, sticking like warm gum to the pavement.

  When the Toyota pulled up, Ahmad saw her dancing on her toes like a yogi trying to cross a bed of hot coals. He scrambled from the car and tore strips of his cherished newspaper and laid them down one by one, testing them with his own bare foot to make sure they were thick enough for her to walk safely to the car. There was a stranger nearby, a Yemeni man in a long gray robe and a suit coat on top. He rushed over to help, ripping his own newspaper and cursing the heat strongly enough to bring a rare smile to Ahmad's face. There was a friendliness in the stranger's gestures that made Katya feel it would be all right to thank him directly, and when she did, he smiled broadly and gave a generous bow.

  Ahmad kept a potholder in his glove box for days like this, when touching the car door would cause a third-degree burn, when handling the steering wheel required fierce determination. He had the potholder in his pocket now—a large blue plastic glove modeled on something created by the Russian space program—and with it he gently opened the door for her, cautioning her not to touch the door frame or the window.

  The Yemeni man laughed at the glove. "It looks like something you'd use to deliver sheep."

  Ahmad smiled delicately. "This potholder belonged to my wife," he said. "I'm afraid she only cooked sheep with it."

  "Ah." The Yemeni raised his eyebrows knowingly. "I'm sorry," he said.

  Katya suddenly felt as if the exchange had happened on a distant world. It wasn't odd that such a casual conversation had led straight to the question of a woman's fertility, but she wondered how many such conversations she had heard over the years and failed to recognize for what they were.

  She climbed into the Toyota. Ahmad had left it running, and the air conditioner was at full blast. On especially hot days he also kept a stack of towels in a cooler full of ice, and one of them was lying across the back seat now. But despite these luxuries, in the five minutes she'd stood waiting for him the heat had managed to penetrate her whole body, and the relative coolness of the car did not reverse the tide of sweat but merely seemed to stay the condition.